


And I Go Marching Home

by THE_EVIL_CLIFFIE



Category: The Shadow Campaigns - Django Wexler
Genre: Building a family, F/F, Post-Canon, fluff with eventual smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-12 05:15:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15988391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/THE_EVIL_CLIFFIE/pseuds/THE_EVIL_CLIFFIE
Summary: Peace has challenges, as does building a home - but home means always having someone there to help when you ask.





	And I Go Marching Home

Piece by piece, Winter narrowed the world. She shut away the far-off cry of an eagle circling the mountaintops; chased away the scent of honeysuckle; walled off the gentle kiss of the breeze through her hair. Concentration, breathing. Relax. Ignore everything else, until the only things that exist are the rifle-barrel, the thin blade of the sight, and the target. A hundred yards, maybe. Royal blue jacket, officer’s cap perched at a jaunty angle. Long grass waved at the bottom of her view, came up to the target’s waist. Heat shimmered in the air. Rest the sight a finger or two above the glinting cap-badge: exhale.

Her finger squeezed the trigger, gently, gently-

The doghead snapped forward. Her right eye closed, without her thinking; she didn’t see the sparks as flint met steel, didn’t catch the smoke. She’d been practising. Half a heartbeat between the flash and the thunder. She held the rifle still, as still as she could, in the instant it took flame to rush through the touch-hole in the barrel. Then:

_Crack!_ A jet of white, the barest flicker of flame. The rifle kicked like a mule, but she’d braced properly.

The world rushed back like a sudden charge. Rotten eggs and sulphur obscured the honeysuckle. Her ears rang, even with the wax stops she’d put in. The breeze lulled, just for a moment, as if shattered.

Winter stood, waving away the gunsmoke.

“Damn good shot, ma’am!” The voice was young – as far as Winter could call a woman five years younger than herself _young_ – and enthusiastic. Winter squinted through the clearing smoke. Her shot had found its mark; the target’s head had exploded. The cap had flown off, and now lay on the rough dirt-pile the Rifles had been using as a backstop.

“I’m not sure this is the most productive use of the last of the pumpkins, Medio,” she said, absently.

Captain Uhlan grunted disagreement.

“These are the runts of the crop, m’lady,” he replied. “That one was hardly big enough to be worth eating. Would’ve been all seeds.”

Winter paced over to where Uhlan leaned against the thick, dark trunk of a spreading oak tree. He held Winter’s spyglass out, and she swapped it for the rifle.

“Good shooting,” he said, sounding genuinely impressed. “You been practising in Borel?”

Winter chuckled.

“King Georg and his nobles apparently enjoy shooting in the springtime. All the deer start ranging again and the rabbits come out of hibernation. Apparently all the best diplomacy happens when people are concentrating on other things, or at least that’s what Raes tells me.”

Uhlan shook his head, a smile on his lips.

“I’m still not used to you calling the queen that, m’lady.”

“And I’m not used to being called ‘my lady’, Medio.”

“Apologies, your excellence,” Uhlan said, and swept into an ostentatious bow. “May I formally congratulate Her Ladyship the Countess Mieran on the successful conclusion of her diplomatic mission to the Kingdom of Borel and extend the happiness all of Mieran county feels at her safe return?”

“Not unless you enjoy double shifts of the apple harvest, Medio,” Winter shot back, and Uhlan laughed. “Don’t push it.”

“Most of ‘em are in already,” he said, and followed Winter as she headed back towards the rough camp the Rifles had set up. Technically, they were still the Mierantai militia, the same group Janus had called out during the Revolution to act as his personal bodyguards and spies. Winter had been somewhat taken aback when Uhlan had led the extant members in an oath of allegiance; up here in the mountains, they still took that sort of thing seriously.

Nowadays, though, the militia called themselves the Rifles. They’d ditched the blue-and-red uniforms they’d worn since the Wars of Religion for a more nondescript green. Winter had sent off to a gunsmith in Nordart for a more robust version of the long rifles they carried to the hunt and to battle; the result was short and heavy and Uhlan had called it a useless paperweight until he’d used his to put three holes a handspan apart in a paper target at a hundred yards. They fitted a long bayonet, too, longer than any Winter had ever seen; the gunsmith had thoughtfully asked a swordsmith to work them in the model of short swords. The result was as long as a musket and bayonet, so they could still fend off cavalry.

Winter had also opened the volunteers to women; Marcus and Cyte had started to do the same for the rest of the army. Up here, a woman had to be as good a hunter as a man; long winters didn’t discriminate, and if a man was called to give his life for Count and County, his wife would have to find food for her family. The day after she’d had the town-crier (town-crier, Mieran County still had a _town-crier_ ) read the announcement, a gaggle of wiry young women clutching rifles and a look of sullen, half-hopeful defiance had turned up at Mierenhal. They were as good at skirmishing as the men, especially after Winter had borrowed Captain di Wallach from Abby to help get them into shape.

As Winter and Uhlan paced away from the firing-line, the other Rifles rushed forward. Each found a mark, set themselves up - some crouching, resting elbows on their knees, others prone - and started cracking away at the targets. They were little more than scarecrows - sacks of straw or sawdust held upright with sticks, old vegetables or bits of wood serving as heads.

“Scrubbed up well over the summer, ain’t they?” Uhlan said, watching them. Through the thickening smoke, Winter saw little puffs of straw and dust as the targets took hits. “Think they’re ready to display for the Ministry?”

“They should be. It’s not like they need to do much convincing. Marcus and Cyte are on board, obviously, and the Girls’ Own already proved the point about skirmishing. The demonstration should mostly be a formality. Still, there’s no reason not to give it our all, eh?”

Uhlan grinned, scratching at his beard.

“Speaking of Cyte,” he said. “You seen her yet?”

Winter shook her head.

“I wanted to surprise her at the fair. You lot just happened to be between the main road and Mierankêr.”

Uhlan looked up and down the rutted track that ran between the paved road up the pass, hidden behind the hills and heat shimmer, and Mierankêr, nestled beneath a shoulder of granite foothill, pretty as a painting. From here, Winter could see the slate roofs and cheerful timbered walls shining in the sun.

“I reckon we’ll be here another hour, ma’am,” Uhlan said. “Probably best for you to head on.”

“You’re sure?”

Uhlan snorted, and threw a quick glance over the rest of the Rifles. The young woman who’d congratulated Winter - her name was Isolde, Winter remembered - was lying on her back, rifle sling braced against one foot, her body curled around the weapon like a mother with her child. As they watched, the rifle spurted flame and smoke, and the farthest target - a good two hundred and fifty yards away - shuddered as she hit it. A cheer went up; Isolde ignored it and started reloading.

“I think I can keep ‘em in hand, ma’am,” Uhlan said. “Go see your girl.”

“You know Cyte glares at you when you call her that, Medio.”

“Aye. But she won’t let me call her the Lady Mieran either.”

“You just use formal titles to poke fun at the people you’re using them for, don’t you?”

Uhlan’s grin was wide and mirthful.

“Oh, aye, _my lady_.”

Winter couldn’t help it; she burst out laughing.

"How many people have worked that out?”

Uhlan waggled his hand in the air.

“A few. It took Janus six years of me calling him _my liege_ to twig it.”

“Six years?”

“He wasn’t always a master manipulator. An’ it’s mostly in fun. Unless someone’s an arsehole. I’ll tell you one thing, though.”

“What?”

“Your brother still hasn’t worked it out.”

* * *

 

Spreading trees shadowed the road to Mierankêr, enveloping Winter in a cocoon of quiet. Uhlan had let her borrow his horse - Edgar was stabled up at Mieranhal, and in any case wasn’t up to much riding these days. The crackle of rifles faded behind her, replaced by the soft susurrus of leaves and branches. Her coat was a deep green, the same colour as the canopy overhead; Mieran County teetered on the cusp of autumn. These were old trees, a mix of oak and apple - Winter leaned over and snagged a ruddy fruit from one dangling branch. A second dropped from the canopy with a sudden _snap_ , and she almost fell off her horse catching it.

A few worrisome moments of overbalance and frantic scrabbling later, and she was secure in the saddle once again. She looked up and down the lane, hoping no-one had seen the Countess almost landing on her arse. Thankfully, the lane was empty. She tapped her heels to the horse’s flanks and absently fed him an apple as he walked placidly along. Uhlan appeared to have the same philosophy about horses as Marcus: they should be strong, rideable, and devoid of absolutely any kind of personality. Apparently the Count Mieran, by tradition, rode a warhorse from the transpale, but so far as Winter could tell Janus had never bothered so she didn’t either.

_Janus_. Still, the name carried a strange resonance in her head. She’d been to see him, once, and they still heard occasional stories, but half of them were marsh gas: a grey-eyed northerner had raided Borelgai merchant-ports, carrying off all the women to be his concubines; a mad sorcerer, formerly of the Black Priests, had raised the dead bodies of the ancient Khutun Kings from their stepped pyramids and sought to end all warm life; the Desoltai had been conquered and forged into one disciplined army, striking from the deserts and jungles across all the southern continent. That last one had something of a ring of truth, Winter had decided, but she doubted the detail. Whatever Janus was doing, he rarely sent dispatches, although sometimes a strange package would arrive a Mieranhal with some gewgaw or trophy or chapbook filled with meticulous diagrams and handwritten notes in Old Mierantai and a pencilled _J_ on the waxed paper. Cyte had pored over one that held a detailed description of the great ruined palaces that lined the upper Tsel; it now sat in Mieranhal’s library.

But the strangest of Janus’ gifts - the one that she still wondered over - had been all this: all the orchards and wheat-fields, the rolling hills and purpling mountains, the fast, cold streams and the songbirds in the trees. Mieran County. Not that it was really a gift; Janus had been formally attainted by the Deputies-General when the Beast had used his body to declare itself Emperor, and so the title had legally reverted to the Crown. Equally technically, the power to create new titles rested with the Deputies, not Raes and Marcus. The plan, so far as Winter could make out, was to make Mieran County a crown ward, appoint a prefect to perform the day-to-day duties of government.

Then the letter had arrived:

_Raesinia, Marcus._

_Things go well enough here; you know I cannot send letters frequently. I will not tell you where I am. Even if I did, by the time this reaches you I will be long gone. I have given much thought recently to the disposition of Mieran County; I came across a Vordanai newspaper announcing the Deputies_ _’ scheme of assigning prefects. While this is a laudable scheme, and it is an excellent way to curb the remaining power of the nobility, I confess I worry about its application to Mieran County._

_The Mierantai are fiercely independent, as you are both no doubt aware; I doubt they would take well to a prefect assigned by the Deputies. They are not treasonous folk, despite their association with me, but they do need to feel that their ruler is, if not one of them, then concerned for them and enmeshed in their community. They set great store by oaths and allegiance, and I believe their particular culture and expertise could be a great boon to the Kingdom._

_Therefore, I submit an idea to Your Majesties: instead of parcelling out Mieran County to a Deputies-assigned governor, create Winter Ihernglass Countess Mieran. As the sister-in-law of the King-Consort and Minister for the Occult, it would be useful for her to hold noble title in her own right; God knows she has done more than enough service to the Crown to justify it. The Mierantai would, I think, take well to her: she is hard-working, conscientious, and loyal to her subordinates. I daresay she might well do a better job than I did in the last few years of my tenure as Count. If it is necessary, the Elders (and, perhaps more importantly, Medio - he tends to act as headman in these situations) can be shown this letter. I know no longer have a right to make this sort of decision, but I trust Winter implicitly, and cannot imagine a more suitable custodian for Mieran County._

_Please find enclosed a short sketch of a monograph on the wildlife of the Arihaga jungles and the history (passed to me by local wise men) of the empire that once stood within it. I believe General Cytomandiclea would find it interesting. I trust that little Mya fares well._

_Yours,_

_J._

It had taken a little arguing with the Deputies - they were loathe to create new noble titles, but apparently an exception could be made, especially for Winter Ihernglass. No-one who hadn’t been told was entirely clear what had really happened, at that last battle north of Vordan City, but the rumour that Winter and her little party in Murnsk had breached the walls of Elysium itself had gone around the army and got into the press. That, apparently, was enough to convince the Deputies. Later, of course, the fact of demons and magic had come out, although she, Marcus and Raesinia were still keeping the truth of the Beast quiet. Winter still wasn’t sure if the world was ready for that. She and Abraham had still not traced the last of the Priests of the Black and the Penitent Damned; Elysium had agents all across the globe, and there was no guarantee they wouldn’t view the destruction of the Beast as a perversion of God’s will, the destruction of the test Karis had left for Humanity.

Priests and fanatics and madhouse doctrine. Sometimes, Winter felt that she was facing the same things she had in Khandar, all those years ago.

_Of course_ , she thought, as her horse rounded a bend in the track and she heard the drone of a bagpipe split the air, _I have a lot more people helping me now_.

Mierankêr had once been a walled town, the outer ring of houses meeting so their walls formed a solid barrier to any attack. But it had been a good century since any army had threatened Mieran County; the walls, which would have been useless against even a battery of field-guns, had been bypassed, and now little cottages sprawled out along the lines of the roads that converged at the centre of the village. Winter passed vegetable gardens and little fields sown with clover; edelweiss and snowdrops grew in the cracks of the dry-stone walls, even this late in the year. Everywhere there were apple-trees, the last of the crop still ripening to red-gold on their branches.

The noise from the town grew louder as she passed through the old wall, ducking her head a little to pass through the new iron-wrought gates. She could hear cheering, dancing, laughter, pipes and drums and fiddles weaving a melody. She smelled the apple tang of fresh cider, the woody smoke of a bonfire, and the heavy, meaty notes of roasting pork, cut with hot pepper and jeera. Lines of coloured flags criss-crossed the lane, and above the roofs she could see the bright garlands about the top of the maypole.

It was the end of the apple harvest, and that meant the Hendra festival. Cyte had explained, once, that Hendra had been one of the old gods of the mountains, before the Mithradacii or Karisai. Once the Mierantai had converted, they’d kept Hendra and the festivals as a kind of benevolent spirit, who ripened apples and protected orchards. Winter had wondered whether Hendra might be some kind of demon or demonhost, but finding out was towards the bottom of her list of things to do. Regardless of origin, the festival spun into wild life every year, bringing with it song and liquor and a host of traditions Winter had only recently grasped.

The big inn just inside the gate had grown over time, each floor jutting out a little further into the road, so that now it looked like some timber-framed mushroom, a few tables sheltering under its overhanging upper floors. The doors were open, letting hubbub and singing and the smell of cider out into the street. Winter dismounted, handed the reins to one of the innkeep’s sons - Keplan, she remembered - and headed towards the square.

The main square was where the town usually held its market; the stalls that usually covered the raised wooden deck in the middle of the dirt had been pushed up against the houses and a parti-coloured canopy now shaded what had become a dancefloor. The doors of the church - old, older even than the Sworn Cathedral in Vordan City - had been thrown open, and the village priest had amiably helped a travelling band set up their instruments on the steps.

The town’s populace were out, in all their finery. Most people owned one or two pieces of bright clothing, carefully hoarded, and now they brought them out for display. The square was a riot of blues and greens and reds, with the occasional flash of yellow or orange punctuating the throng. The older townspeople, the ones there to mind children or to socialise, congregated around the ring of stalls, sipping fresh cider or spiced tea. The younger ones, the young men tripping over their feet or the girls in frilly dresses with flowers in their hair, had flowed to the dancefloor. People clapped and stomped the rhythm of a reel, backing the sound of pipes and fiddles.

“Hey, hey! That’s my apple!”

Winter’s ear caught the voice through the throng: the high, angry sound of a girl wronged. She had a pretty good idea which girl, too; and who’d wronged her. Two steps forward, sliding between the bulky form of the miller and his brightly-dressed wife, one arm reaching out-

She checked Alice as she darted away from Lisbeth, slowing Alice’s run to a stumble in a circular sweep.

“Hey!” Alice shouted, struggling.

“What have I told you about taking other people’s things?” Winter said, in what she’d come to think of as her Marcus Voice: well-meaning, teacherly, just a little pompous. Alice froze.

“Winter?”

Winter let Alice go. The girl was eleven years old, dark-haired and freckled, all mischievous grin and devilish delight in tricks and japes. She was - had been - the daughter of a pair of Ecco Island fisherfolk who had been caught in the last, scrappy fighting of the Borelgai occupation. Now she was officially a ward of the Crown, staying at the Royal Foundling Home.

_Royal Foundling Home_. The words sat uneasily in Winter’s mind. Mrs. Wilmore had run a Royal Foundling Home. It had taken in and chewed up and spat out hundreds of girls, some into the near-slavery of rural marriage before the Revolution, some into…

_Lost girls. Girls who run away and join the army or found a gang. Girls who kill people._

That wasn’t right, she knew; Winter and Bobby and Jane had done what they needed to survive.

Now she ran something as unlike Mrs. Wilmore’s as she could manage while still being a foundling home, Winter had made it her mission to see that none of her charges had to make the choices she’d had to.

“Winter!”

Lisbeth’s voice cut through that maudlin thought. She was of an age with Alice, but tall and gangling. Blonde hair had managed to escape a braid, and her accent still bore traces of the border with Murnsk. When she’d first arrived at Mieranhal, Winter had had to stay up with her, comforting her through night terrors; Lisbeth had always cried out for her parents in Murnskai. Winter and Cyte made a point to speak to her in that language at least once a day.

“Is this your apple, Lisbeth?”

Lisbeth stood, stunned, for a moment. Her hands clutched at the front of her dress - the good one in a deep green, almost the same colour as Winter’s riding-coat. She nodded, mutely. Winter held it out, and Lisbeth took it, cradling it like something precious. Almost a year after her arrival, Lisbeth still acted like food was a precious resource, like she was one meal away from starvation.

“Alice,” Winter said, turning. Alice had her hands clasped in front of her, staring at her now-muddy shoes. Winter crouched, bringing herself level with Alice’s face. Her coat might trail in the dirt, but that wasn’t important. “What have we told you about taking other people’s things?”

“I was going to give it back,” Alice mumbled. “I didn’t mean to-”

“Maybe you didn’t,” Winter said. “But you know Lisbeth. You know how distressed she gets when you take her food, don’t you?”

Alice nodded.

“Did you want to upset Lisbeth?”

“No.”

“Then what should you do?”

“’Pologise” Alice slumped a little.

“And?”

“And not take her food.”

Winter reached out and cupped Alice’s cheek. The girl’s eyes were a little wet when they met Winter’s. Alice had a talent for getting places she shouldn’t, and a love of sleight-of-hand; whether that was juggling, or card tricks, or charming pockets. She wasn’t malicious in it, Winter knew. Still, teaching her the time and place for that sort of thing was Winter’s responsibility.

“So what do we say?” Winter asked, as warmly as possible.

Alice turned to Lisbeth.

“I’m sorry I took your apple.”

Lisbeth nodded, cradling the apple like it was a precious thing. She looked down at it for a moment, then:

“I accept your apology.” Lisbeth said the words formally, like she was reciting them by rote, but both Winter and Alice knew that was how she spoke when her feelings were inflamed. Then, suddenly, as if she’d been saving the movement up and had to let it out all at once, she thrust the apple towards Alice. “You can have it if you like.”

“You’re sure?” Alice’s little forehead creased.

“Yes. Winter can get me another one.”

Lisbeth grinned at Winter, the expression as sudden and joyful as the sun breaking through stormclouds. Winter found herself grinning. She reached forward and tousled Alice’s hair, and gently took Lisbeth by the hand.

“I think Mr. Botrel is selling taffy apples,” she said. “Would you like one?”

As she led the girls towards the wooden stall, each of them enthusiastically saying that yes, they would like one of Mr. Botrel’s sugar-coated crop, the crowd shifted a little, and there—

Cyte was smiling. Grinning, even, arms folded in front of her, hair falling in a braid over her shoulder. The expression lit her face up; Winter found herself grinning back, schoolgirl-giddy. Years of peace had filled out Cyte’s whip-thin figure, and the blue coat - her favourite, Winter knew - hugged her curves.

Winter had to look away from her eyes to pay Mr. Botrel, and deliver an admonition to the girls to be back at the milestone on the road leading to Mieranhal when the church-bells chimed the hour. When she looked back, Cyte stood in front of her, close enough to touch.

“Hello.”

“Hello.”

What to say? There wasn’t anything to say, or at least anything that needed saying now. Winter stepped closer, drawn forward as if by a riptide. Cyte’s arms snaked up and around Winter’s neck; she felt Cyte’s body pressed against hers. Grey eyes filled her world, deep and impish and _home_.

They kissed. The fair dropped away. There was nothing in the universe except Cyte, and her waist under Winter’s hand and her lips against Winter’s lips and her tongue barely brushing into Winter’s mouth.

Like all perfect moments, it had to end. Winter broke away, suddenly self-conscious; they were in public. Cyte’s eyes stayed closed for a second or so, her lips in a self-satisfied smile.

“I missed you,” she said, not opening her eyes.

“I missed you too.” Winter reached up with one hand to brush a stray strand of hair out of Cyte’s face. “More than I can describe.”

Cyte’s eyes snapped open, a spark of mischief in them.

“I’m sure you can show me later,” she said, dropping her voice so only Winter might hear. Despite herself, despite the years she’d lived with Cyte, Winter felt her face turn red. Cyte’s laugh, low and warm and promising, didn’t help.

“We’re in public, love,” Winter murmured.

“And I’ve just put my tongue in your mouth in the middle of Mierankêr. If people haven’t got the idea yet, they never will.”

Winter had to laugh; Cyte grinned and snuck another quick kiss.

“What’s that in your hand?”

“Oh!”

Winter stepped back, bringing one hand between herself and Cyte. She held up the apple Lisbeth had left her with, bright red and almost the size of her fist.

“I think those taffy apples interest them more than the fresh kind,” Winter said.

“Of course they do. You can’t glue your mouth shut with the regular kind.”

“A major design flaw.”

“As ever, human ingenuity improves upon God’s creation.”

They held gazes for a moment, then broke down laughing. Distantly, Winter realised they were blocking the front of the taffy apple stall; she guided Cyte away to the overhang in front of the blacksmith’s. Rather than the heat of the forge or the clang of iron, she could instead hear the splash and cheering of the apple-bobbing competition. Winter leaned against the wall and gazed at Cyte, recommitting her lover’s face to memory. Cyte looked away, that smile still playing across her lips, as if embarrassed.

“How was Borel?” Cyte asked. Her hand found Winter’s free one. Their fingers twined.

“Rainy. I’d never have imagined you could have clouds and fog like that in July.”

“I was mostly asking about the diplomacy, my love.”

“Oh, right.” Winter absently took a bite of the apple, thinking as she chewed. “Georg wanted assurances from the Deputies that we won’t interfere in Murnsk. It’s a tricky peace, and getting both sides to accept the new Emperor is still going to take a lot of work. Making sure a new Emperor doesn’t simply turn the war outward is also going to be a problem.” Cyte knew this already; as one of the new general staff, she’d had to draw up the mobilisation plans to be used if war came.  “The plan now is to have a big summit in Vordan, with Raes and Marcus presiding.”

“Raesinia and Marcus being famous for their tact and diplomacy, of course.”

“They’ve got much better recently,” Winter said. “Anyway, there’s no crisis for the moment. I suppose that’s the best we can hope for.”

They lapsed into silence again. Then:

“You know, I thought it’d be over when we won.”

Winter smiled.

“I never thought it’d end,” she said. “Or at least, I never thought I’d make it through.”

Cyte squeezed her fingers.

“I know,” she said. “But you did. And frankly, compared to what we’ve faced, a little diplomatic wrangling isn’t that bad.”

“I suppose it isn’t. And we’ve got each other.”

“We have.” Cyte grinned, then plucked the apple from Winter’s fingers.

“Hey!”

“Did I ever tell you about the Rite of Harvest?” Cyte asked.

“Is that a Mithradacii thing?”

Cyte nodded.

“The apple was the symbol of Aia, the goddess of love,” she said, leaning forward as she always did when talking about the ancient world. “At the harvest, you’d use one to promise yourself to someone.”

“How?”

“You’d wait til they took a bite.” Cyte held up the apple. “Then you’d bite.” She bit, chewed, swallowed. “Then, if they wanted to accept your promise, they’d kiss you.”

“Like this?” Winter asked, then kissed her. It was a good kiss, slow and languid, tasting of apple.

“Like that,” Cyte murmured as their lips broke apart. “Just like that.”

“So what did the promise mean?”

A slow smile spread across Cyte’s face.

“It was like a proposal. You’d give them an apple blossom to wear, and then you’d dance with them in front of the community, and it was understood you were to be married.”

“And I presume you brought an apple blossom?”

Cyte grinned and flourished one. She reached up and tucked it into Winter’s hair. Winter couldn’t help but laugh.

“It’s entirely typical that you pre-plan your romantic gestures, love.”

She could see Cyte trying to suppress a giggle.

“We have twenty minutes,” Cyte said, checking the new clock on the church tower. She straightened, court-formal, one arm behind her back, the other proffered to Winter.

“Countess Mieran,” she continued, in the formal manner of a noble at a masque, “Would you grant me the great honour of a dance?”

“General,” Winter replied, fighting a grin, “Nothing could please me more.”

Cyte beamed, took Winter’s hand, and led her to the dancefloor, to music and whirling feet and a fierce happiness that Winter had never imagined she’d attain.

**Author's Note:**

> This will probably have another one or two chapters, with eventual smut, hence the rating. Some mild angst, probably, and a bit more post-series worldbuilding, but I'm mostly here for fluff and smut tbh.


End file.
